


Miles to go before I sleep

by quiettimenotriottime



Series: Sherlock drabbles [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 01:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12545500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiettimenotriottime/pseuds/quiettimenotriottime
Summary: John shivers in the thin, drizzling rain, miserable and trembling and exhausted to his very bones. He's been driven like a stag across moorland and fields, hunted and fearful for his life. He's fled his relentless pursuer like a rabbit from a clever, tenacious fox. And finally, in this muddy field, he's been captured.





	Miles to go before I sleep

John shivers in the thin, drizzling rain, miserable and trembling and exhausted to his very bones. He's been driven like a stag across moorland and fields, hunted and fearful for his life. He's fled his relentless pursuer like a rabbit from a clever, tenacious fox. And finally, in this muddy field, he's been captured. 

The arrow had torn through his thigh, slicing through muscle and sinew, rendering his left leg almost useless. He grips the short broadsword, ignoring the mud and the rain and the ache in his leg and the twinge of his bad shoulder. It's a futile gesture, perhaps, but he refuses to go down without a fight. 

He holds his chin high, decisive and unafraid.

Through the sheeting rain he watches white steam emerge from the horse's damp nostrils as it approaches. The horse's rider is panting from exertion and his cheeks are flushed with the thrill of the chase. He dismounts and approaches John, looking pleased and exhilarated. John backs away, stumbles, rights his balance in time. He brandishes his sword in one final attempt at bravado. 

The prince scarcely notices. He knocks the blade from John's frozen fingers. He removes his own sable cloak and throws it around his shoulders, long fingers brushing at his throat as the clasp is secured. It's something he would have fought like a wild animal to avoid had he not been so tired, so heartsick. He scoops John's emaciated body up into his arms and murmurs against his ear. 

"I've finally found you."

John burrows closer into the folds of the cloak. It's lined with ermine, soft as spun sugar. His wrecked body sags in the saddle like a puppet. It hardly matters, in the cradle of Sherlock's arms.

He thinks this is a sort of surrender, and there's no shame in that.


End file.
